


A Different Dead End

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Supernatural
Genre: Face-Fucking, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29983014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: Tonight, Sam's a little sloppy on drinks stolen from tables in the tiny little dive bar, his fake IDs still in the Impala. Tonight, he's any other nineteen year old out too late, ears ringing from the music and body sore from elbows and knees crashing into him. Tonight, he's playing the part of Dean, his ever present shadow. Smooth. Experienced. Carefree. Mouth wet and swollen from someone else's, sweat sticking his shirt to his back, and Frank stuck to his front.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 6





	A Different Dead End

**Author's Note:**

> ....yeah, I don't know either, but I saw size difference on the KB card and my little Bandom heart immediately went "Frank". The possibilities ;__;

Everything reeks like cigarettes, beer, and sweat. Sam feels heavy with it, his head and the whole world pulsing to the bass beat leaking from the bar. In the dimness of the alley, the air is so saturated with smoke that it looks like fog. A cloud he could walk through and find some sort of magic on the other side. A bottle crashes against something hard, someone starts shouting words too slurred to understand. 

It's the most at home he's felt since he left Dad and Dean behind, since he froze his ass off half walking and half hitching to New Jersey. In two days, a bus will take him to California. In two days, Sam Winchester is going to be a whole new person. A whole person. His _own_ person. 

Tonight, though-

Tonight, he's a little sloppy on drinks stolen from tables in the tiny little dive bar, his fake IDs still in the Impala. Tonight, he's any other nineteen year old out too late, ears ringing from the music and body sore from elbows and knees crashing into him. Tonight, he's playing the part of Dean, his ever present shadow. Smooth. Experienced. Carefree. Mouth wet and swollen from someone else's, sweat sticking his shirt to his back, and Frank stuck to his front. 

Frank, who stands two whole heads shorter than him, a ball of energy so violent Sam feels the echo in his own bones. The tiny silver loop wrapped over the left corner of Frank's lower lip pinches against Sam's mouth, hot and cold as Frank tips back and crashes forward again. Sam grabs him by the bleach accident orange hair and pulls, tilting Frank's head back. 

"Fuck, you're so big," Frank says against Sam's mouth. His tongue tastes like hops and his skin tastes like salt. When he reaches his hand up to slide two fingers between their mouths, Sam opens up and sucks against the rough patches on his fingertips, straight lines from guitar strings instead of knuckle patch gun scars. 

Tonight, he isn't terrified little Sammy Winchester. Tonight, he _chose_ Frank. He saw the scorpion tattooed on the arch of his neck, saw the glint of Frank's lip ring, saw the ripped out knees of Frank's jeans and the scabs hiding under the spider web threads still clinging on and _wanted_ and _taken_. Dean would be so proud.

"Think you're just small," Sam says, half garbled around the slide of Frank's fingers in and out past his lips. Frank laughs- a high pitched, unashamed giggle three steps higher than his voice- and Sam wants to _wreck_ him. "Hold on."

Sam bends at the knees, head dizzy and heart thumping, and locks his hands under the swell of Frank's ass. His palms are sweaty and Frank's jeans are soft from wear, torn frays of denim, but Sam fits his broad palms under Frank's thighs and lifts. Frank laughs the whole way up, flailing his arms until they smack-wrap around Sam's neck, his legs swinging up to hug Sam's hips. His worn down rubber soles squeak against the bricks, shrill over the pumping bass. Sam's shoulder blades hit the wall hard, jarring pressure that vibrates up to his teeth. He uses the wall as a brace for Frank's weight, digs his heels into the gravel and thrusts up helplessly. 

"Fuck, I'm like a backpack to you," Frank says, still laughing as he drags his whole body up higher, elbows digging into Sam's shoulders. It hurts and feels great all at once, pressure and ache and his hard dick in his jeans all screaming for his attention. Frank jabs his hips forward, Sam nearly toppling over at the eye-crossing pressure against his cock. "Fuck, fuck, got an idea." 

Frank scrambles for his belt, Sam staggering under the shift of his weight. Once he's got them steady, he can see the plan. Frank isn't heavy at all. Sam can and has lifted his weight for hours on end with something broken. If he wanted, Sam could do almost anything to him. He's bigger, faster, stronger. He can have complete control if he just takes it. First time ever in his life, he can _force_ Frank to do whatever he wants. But he doesn't want to. 

Frank's knees stab into the spaces under his arms and right up against his ribs, his heels digging into the small of Sam's back. Sam's big enough or Frank's small enough that it shoves his hips right in front of Sam's face, the hard ridge of his dick obscene this close up. Frank's forearms hit the brick above Sam's head, bracing himself as Sam navigates what spare room he has to get his mouth into the right spot. His lips hit zipper and stomach first, a tooth snagging the delicate skin open. Frank leans back for a heart-stopping, unbalanced second, just long enough to get his the fly of his jeans open.

Frank's cock jerks free, no barrier of underwear between denim and skin. He stinks like sweat and boy and dirt, like salt and anger and nicotine and cheap beer. 

Sam closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and gets lost on it. 

It's messy and wet, spit drooling out from the corners of his mouth as Frank grinds forward. Sam's hand is wide enough that he can almost wrap it all the way around Frank's thigh. He squeezes it tight when Frank goes too hard, when the head of Frank's cock bounces against the roof of his mouth. Doesn't try to control a damn thing.

"Holy shit," Frank mutters, one of his arms scraping down the brick with a road rash sound, his hand fisting into Sam's hair. "Oh my God." Sam can't move his head, but he pushes his tongue out flat, sucks harder when Frank pulls back. His own dick is trapped, bent down at a painful angle that isn't doing anything to tamp down on how hard he is. 

Between Sam's shaking knees and Frank's jackhammer handful of final thrusts, they nearly go down as Frank comes. His high, dog whistle whine echoes off the alley walls, his cock slipping free. Hot, sticky jizz hits Sam's cheek, his jaw, pools at the dip of his shoulder. It's filthy and Sam's cock throbs. He locks his arms tighter under Frank's thighs and flips them, Frank's back hitting the wall with a thud. 

"Just let me- I gotta-" Sam drops his arms and Frank slides bonelessly down the brick, his t-shirt riding up. He holds on with one loose arm and one loose leg, but it doesn't matter because Sam is keeping him up with the force of his own body, fucking up against Frank's soft stomach like he's running a race. 

"Fuck yeah," Frank says, mouthing at Sam's wet neck. Sam lets go with one hand, long enough to rip at the fly of his jeans. "Come on, come on." 

Sam comes all over Frank's stomach, Frank still sucking away at his skin. 

They do go down to the gravel then, a gentle fall that Sam breaks with his ass. Frank sprawls on top of him for a moment, somehow heavier that way. When Frank rolls to his feet, Sam closes his eyes for just a second longer and tells himself it's the beginning of a new life.


End file.
